


Polaris

by Aikatsu



Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aikatsu/pseuds/Aikatsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer vacations are usually what change everything. For Farkle Minkus it escalates the home life he's always known and he comes to find himself with one important question: Does anyone really know what love is? How is he sure he really, truly knows what that is if he's never really seen it at home? Suddenly the reason he felt he didn't have feelings makes sense. And he doesn't know what to do. A painful journey awaits him when summer comes to an end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "What a kid is taught is what a kid becomes"

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! Hello! This is my first multi-chapter fanfiction in a very long time. I spent earlier writing out the actually rough outline of things and know how the story will start and end. I do want to advise while I have an ending that isn’t “bad” planned out, the story to get there will deal with child neglect, child abuse, and abusive relationships. They’re all themes I’ve seen in Farkle’s homelife that I wanted to kind of explore. I will try to keep everything I can realistic and true to the characters in that way, but because I’m not sure disney will explore these situations any further this may be considered slightly au.
> 
> For the most part this story will not be anything for shipping. Sorry, but with the situations going on that would not be a focus on the characters minds. That’s not to say it won’t come up– but it’s not important.It’s the “how” that is and I hope you guys enjoy it.
> 
> That said this isn’t an official chapter so it’s a prologue. The actual first chapter will start at the beginning of freshman year, so this is a prologue. Please let me know if you enjoy it! I’ll try to write the next few chapters in the morning.

**Prologue: "**

Summer for Farkle Minkus had always, for lack of a better word, sucked. The two and a half months always consisted of trying to compile a list of things to research and do but then finding he's already done it all a week in. He then fights to figure out something else to do and yet none of it seem like a good idea. Once, he'd even been so desperate he went to Cory Matthews to request an essay. _Any essay._ Of course the man laughed at him and Farkle sulked so he doesn't do that anymore.

It'd be easy to say he could have spent the entire summer with his girlfriend, but Isadora had ended up in a youth group study at NASA. He didn't want to apply as not to interfere with the girl's studies (and already their friends were trying to guide them into the way of further couplism, not that the two needed it). Even if he did he also knew by the second week of summer his father was planning another family outing. Now, Farkle usually tried to be optimistic about spending time with his father. It's just it's been years Stuart tried to plan a vacation and they always ended practically the same day due to business or, if it made it further, his parents would get into some argument and the rest of the trip would be tense.

He wanted to have hope but after his last year in middle school he was beginning to question the way things were. That lack of hope seemed to get worse that summer. He was happy in the beginning. Stuart had actually managed to rearrange his entire work schedule and got someone to fill in. No one was supposed to call during the trip unless it was an absolute emergency. Aside from one mistaken call no other ones seemed to come through. The trip seems to go well and Farkle lets his guard slip. He tries to enjoy the ocean and finds himself taking thousands of pictures of his seemingly happy parents.

It's only three-quarters of the way through that things change. Stuart gets a call and leaves in the middle of dinner. Farkle watched as his mother's face darkened and he turned to shoveling around some of the food on the plate. His stomach was already sinking as his father's voice carried into the dining room. Stuart wasn't loud, per-say, but Farkle had long ago gotten used to the sounds of his parents voice. Even their “calm voice” could sound like yelling if he knew it wasn't any good.

When his father came back in with a strained smile, Farkle tried to smile encouragingly and offer his father support. Stuart politely brushed him off for a moment before calling attention to his wife. It's as his mother's fork clatters onto his plate that Farkle holds his breath. He doesn't realize he's doing it, but he's fully aware of what's about to happen next. The two adults aren't even out of the room before the start talking in quickly escalating voices. Minkus International had invested a lot of money once more in a new product. This time it flopped, now they had to figure out how to make up for the loss.

Farkle swallowed roughly listening. He'd heard this fight many times before, it was one of the quickest ways to make Jennifer angry-- A potential lack of money. He'd noticed it a long time ago that his mother was happy and fine when things were going perfectly to her plan. If they didn't, like now, she yelled at his father and that's when the throwing things started, too. He'd never seen it get worse than that, but he knew he left long before they stopped fighting.

He gasps out a breath when his lungs demand air. His own fork crashes against his plate as he hurriedly stands up. Neither of the adults notice as the young man flees for anywhere but their hotel suite, chair swaying precariously. It's only when he slams the door that the two realize their son heard them and left. When they make their way to the door to call for him, the boy's not waiting down at the elevator a few doors down. Instead he'd run down the stairs into the hedged garden the fancy hotel was famous for.

It's some hours later that he hears the crinkling of dried out grass and the unhappy grunts in a tone he knew too well. He barely had to look up from the pavilion he'd taken shelter under to identify the man. For once he doesn't greet his father on site, instead burying his head into his knees and holding them tighter to his chest. He feels safer and better like this. Even when the man moves slowly to sit next to him the boy doesn't flinch.

“Farkle,” his father greets, amicably, more like a professional would to a colleague.

Farkle was used to this tone. There were times that he appreciated that his father didn't speak down to him and treated him like an intellectual equal. Just as often, however, the boy wished he'd speak to him like a father. Like he'd seen Mr. Matthews do so many times. He always chastised himself for thinking that, because it wasn't as if he had a bad father—just a different one.

After a moment of mentally scolding himself, Farkle adjusted the position he was sitting in. He forces himself to be more open when he responds in kind, “Hello, father.”

“...Nice weather out here,” the man responds after a moment.

Farkle furrows a brow glancing up towards the sun mostly set and the storm clouds looming in the distance. He'd been seeing the lightning strikes over the other part of the city for the last fifteen minutes. Nice weather was not what he'd call it, but he certainly favored it to the weather that had been brewing inside.

He swallows with rough uncertainty before replying meekly, “I guess so.”

The words seem to come out as less of a question than he meant. But it seems to satisfy his father as he reaches over to rub a hand against his head. The corners of Farkle's lips can't help the slight upturn of his lips. “...You're mother and I are done, Farkle,” Stuart advises yet, instantly tearing the smile from his son's lips, “We're done talking. She'll be staying in another room tonight and we've decided it'll be best we go to New York early... with the situation.”

The potential loss of money he meant.

Cotton filled Farkle's throat. His fingers instantly moving to his knees, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans. Stuart gives him a look that's concerned, dropping his hand to his son's hair once more. Farkle continues not to be able to respond verbally, instead closing his eyes and counting backwards from ten. He needed to be calm—it was going to be okay. They were always like that.

“Alright, son,” his father said after a moment, “we need to get inside. The storm's almost here.”

“...I want to stay out here,” Farkle responded gravelly.

Stuart paused from where he was moving to stand up. Eyebrows furrowing as he looks down at his son, hand going to his wrist with a gentle tug. “Farkle, don't be silly,” he continues with a chastising patience, “it's going to be dangerous out here.”

Still, Farkle doesn't move. Doesn't open his eyes. He opens his mouth once to try to verbalize his feelings but can't figure out where to start. Would it be unfair to his father to say something? What if he didn't? He wants so much to say anything, but all of the thoughts blur together into a freakish tornado of impalpable emotions. Farkle's so busy calculating that he doesn't realize that his mouth speaks for him.

“I like this storm. At least it makes sense.”

He could make sense of nature. Of how moisture became condensation, how lightning was formed. He could understand this, but he couldn't understand how two people who were supposed to be in love could be so fast to fight with each other. Unfortunately for him, he still doesn't realize he uttered this tiny epiphany. He doesn't open his eyes to see the look cross his father's features before he smiles tightly once more.

“We're going, Farkle,” his father gives, less amicably more authorial.

Farkle doesn't get up this time either. It's only when he feels a sudden crushing pressure on his wrist that his eyes snap open. Blue eyes turning in alarm from his father's pained smile to the hand that was still wrapped around his wrist. He feels the tugging sensation as much as he feels the pain of how tightly his father grips his wrist. He forgets how to move not out of defiance, but out of shock and how it feels like his father might break his wrist if he wanted.

He flinches at the sharpness of it before finally stumbling to his feet. Stuart's grip finally seems to slacken, but he doesn't let go either. Farkle's eyes glance at the slightly more content way his father looks at him. Instead of returning it the boy's eyes fall back to the ground watching his feet as they walk back into the hotel.

As they do a steady trickle of rain falls from the sky masking the stray tears that leave the boy's eyes. Something was changing and, for once, he didn't appreciate those changes.

 


	2. "Please don't ever let me not understand love."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does the first days of the school year bring...?

  


The last weeks of summer passed in a blur. Farkle got more used to the renewed version of arguing his parents would go through. Instead of a perhaps weekly fight it was constant and often could be heard from his room. There were nights he'd step out to see their shadows on a wall and he'd freeze up at the sight. He tells himself it's just a trick of the mind and retreat back to his room. He'd turn on the music on his phone and put in headphones. For the rest of the summer he found ways to not come home—He'd stay with Lucas or Zay. At one point when the boys went to Texas for the weekend, Farkle camped out on Riley's fire escape. He was only caught the next morning by Maya when she came over. He made her promise not to tell anyone (little did he know Maya and Riley had a long bay window talk about just that some hours later).

  


That's how it turned out that for the last week of summer Farkle Minkus found himself constantly surrounded by friends. Smackle was in on it, too, and the both of them had three dates in that week alone. One day the girls made him go shopping for a new wardrobe and he had to avoid buying anything for himself—He still hadn't told them about the hushed up negotiations that may result in a major loss of money. Once, Farkle went along willingly to a baseball game with Lucas and Zay. Somehow that ended in the boys getting one of the balls that was batted in their direction. The other two decided that Farkle should have it so now the scruffed up baseball sat proudly on the shelf in front of his bed.

It was that night that also was the eve of the school year and in true fashion the baseball game went into extra innings. Farkle was fine with the first one, it still wasn't so late, but by the third he grew antsy and worried. He knew all too well his father would have words to say if it was much later. By the time the game was actually over it was nine o'clock and instead of taking the subway with his friends he'd hurriedly called one of their drivers. He spent the drive home internally panicking since on school nights his father still expect him to be asleep at eight o'clock. At the very latest he was given to nine.

He found himself arriving home at ten-fifteen. The driver had to remind him that he had to get out of the car when he found himself staring at his phone's clock. Quickly the boy apologized and thanked the driver for his time before making his way out of the car and the garage. When he stepped in the elevator he briefly considered the possibility of skipping the floor he knew his father would be on but dismissed the idea just as quickly. Shakily he pressed the large “10” that led to the floor that was his father's study. There's another moment of hesitation before he steps off and moves down the hall.

Stuart Minkus opens the door nearly as soon as Farkle knocks on it. The boy's eyes glance up at the man's visage and notes the way his father's smile. It's the same politely enforced one he wears when he's unhappy. Farkle's eyes dart away as quickly as he sees it. When his father reaches out to grip his shoulder he closes eyes and counts backwards from five. In the last few weeks he's become accustomed to the all-too rough touches of his father. When had they started that he was so used to them already? ...Middle school graduation, he remembers all too well, when the same smile and touch was given to them at the mere prospect of Farkle not attending an Ivy League school.

“Did you have fun, Farkle?” Stuart inquired, voice as tight as his smile.

Farkle had learned from last time and gave a sharp nod of his head. “I did, yes,” he says forcing his voice to raise louder than the squeak that almost escape, “I'm sorry I'm back so late. The game took a while and then the traffic was bad.”

He swallowed knowing immediately that his father would take that as an excuse. Even to him it sounded like one that he couldn't blame his father for being upset. He feels Stuart's fingers dig further into his shoulder and grits his teeth waiting for him to speak.

“You know,” his father hummed, glancing at a clock, “you have to wake up by 6:15. That's less than eight hours from now. At your age for the best quality of life you need anywhere between eight and nine.”

A hand tightened by his side. He was shocked to find himself thinking that a better quality of life would be to not have your parents fight all the time. To not be afraid of letting your father down because you've become increasingly aware of what his added stressers mean. “I know,” Farkle says meekly, swallowing down all the thoughts as he relaxes his hand. But it's too late as Stuart's already taken notice and his eyes have narrowed. Farkle can't even say anything out of fear as his father pulls him further into the office and shuts the door.

  


The next morning comes all too soon for Farkle. His body aches and going to sleep late makes him less inclined to get out of bed. He knows he has too, though, as this was the last alarm he had before he'd likely be late. After another moment of the rooster sounds blaring from his phone he pushes himself into a sitting position. He regrets the movement instantly when the pressure on his left arm shoots a sharp wave of pain to his finger tips. Exhaling he moves the weight off his hand and slides his feet onto the rug next to his bed.

He quickly gathers up some clothes from his closet. He considers a turtleneck before grabbing out a familiar denim-fleece jacket. In the last few weeks he'd been glad for his continuous habit of wearing long-sleeves with the increasing shift of his father's behavior. It made the questions from the knows who knew him less likely and he just shrugged off all the comments of it being too hot to wear long sleeves from nameless strangers. He was likely to never see most of them again anyway.

Scrubbing at a watery eye he made his way into the bathroom. He avoids looking at the mirror as he strips down—he doesn't need to look at in the mirror to see the red and brown marks that have taken up on his upper torso and arms. Gritting his teeth at the tenderness of taking off his clothes he welcomed the soothing warmth of the shower when he stepped into it. He left the cold water off and allowed the scorching heat to wash away some of the dull ache off his frame.

When he's done he doesn't make his way to the kitchens when the conductor pulls his train into the room. He comments that he's not hungry and just wants to get school, something that didn't feel close to a lie even with the hollow town of his voice. That was the sound that made the conductor look at him worriedly, but Farkle smiled more easily at it. “I just want to see my friends,” he commented quickly. The man, content with that answer, nodded before announcing that their next stop was the elevator. He never saw Farkle heave a sigh of relief.

Farkle feels more like himself when he stepped out of the constraining feeling of his parents' home. Sunlight washed over him rejuvenating him where the shower had not. For a moment things felt like they were going back to normal. He was happy to go back to school—even as a freshman—happier still to be with his friends and girlfriend in the coming year (the latter of which was still a pleasant idea). It's with a renewed vigor that he makes his way over to the high school they had orientation at just a few days prior. Fingers playing with the strap of his book in a rhythmic pattern as he hummed to himself.

So far into his own little word is he that he doesn't notice someone creep up behind him. Or someones, as it were. He doesn't hear them talking idly about him-- “Look at our little squeak now!”--he only notices when suddenly two different sets of hands clap him on his shoulders and his knees buckle at the weight. He sucks in a breath at the tingling sensation of prickled pain coursing through his left arm as he tries to steady himself. The only reason he doesn't fall completely over is that a familiar, muscled arm holds him up by his good arm.

“Yikes,” a familiar voice cuts in, surprise lacing the singular word.

Another one adds in quickly, pulling him up, “You okay there, buddy?”

It's only when the other boy releases him that he realizes how spinny the world suddenly was. His own hand moves to wrap around his friend's forearm as he tries to fully steady himself. “Farkle?” the boy he held onto said worriedly, “I didn't mean to scare you. Are you going to be okay?”

He's quiet a moment before he feels strong enough to talk again. “I'm fine,” he says with a squeak. Noting the pause of disbelief from his friends he continues, “I'm fine, really. I was just surprised, you shouldn't do that to a guy! Why did you guys do that anyway?” He slips all too easily into familiar chastising making the other two boys relax.

“ _Well_ ,” Zay starts with a drawl, “you see, we were calling your name at the last station. And then we tried talking bad about you behind your back. And when that happened, Lucas here decided that hitting you was the best course of action. Now I tried telling hi--”

“Hey,” Lucas cuts in reproachfully, nudging Zay, “don't put this all on me! You were excited about the idea of taking down a genius!”

Zay arches a brow, “And you weren't?”

“Well—I--” Lucas tried looking for an excuse.

“I rest my case.”

In spite of the tingling still lingering in his arm, Farkle can't help the smile that played across his lips at the two's banter. If you had told him last year that he'd be best friends with these two maniacs he might have laughed in your face. Not that he wasn't laughing now, just in a different way than he would anticipate. Shaking his head the boy broke into their conversation, “Okay, guys. Are you two going to stand out here all day fighting about who tried to kill me? Because if so I'm going to go to class now as it's probably more probable we'll be murdered for skipping school.”

He meant it as a joke but he was now hyper-aware of the fact that it wasn't a complete impossibility. Or something close to it, anyway.

“...Good point,” Lucas and Zay both chorused before turning back to the door in a speed-walking race not to miss the bell.

Shaking his head, Farkle flickered a smile before heaving his bookbag up up onto his good shoulder. Entering the building he was far more grateful for his sudden growth spurt than he ever was before. While it had been satisfactory being the same height as Lucas, it certainly seemed beneficial that he now towered over a majority of the people mingling in the hallway—At least he could see where he was going and where to avoid.

“Dearest,” a pleased interjects his musings.

A smile quickly forms against his lips as he turns to the girl who had made it out of his line of sight on entry. He practically melts at the look Isadora Smackle is giving him and it doesn't help that she looks cute in the pale-green princess style dress she was wearing. “Isadora,” he manages, his usual enthusiasm finding its way home as he moves to her side. He used his good hand to grip his girlfriend's hand, his stomach doing flips when she grips his just as tightly. He was always pleased when she found herself comfortable holding or hugging him. The fact she was comfortable with him was the best present she could give him and he'd told her as much more than once.

“Are you ready for the new year?” Smackle prods, leading him into the sea of students, “I must admit I feel nervous in a way I did not expect. I have no doubts the curriculum will be below me, I've already read what they teach here in _public school_. I'll be top of the class for sure. However, will I fit? I do not know why this question bothers me so.”

The smile continues to tug more wildly on his lips as she speaks. “Because you care. You want to have friends,” he quips, squeezing her hand tightly, “you'll be fine. You have us. And you're Isadora Smackle, nothing can take you.” Smackle beams at him and he can't help the way he feels like a pile of mush. “Well,” she says appeased, “if my former arch-nemesis thinks so then it must be true.”

He nods before furrowing a brow, “Do you know where the guys went?”

“If you mean Isiah and our third wheel,” Smackle responds quirking her head, “I believe I saw them heading for your ex-wives.”

“Ah,” Farkle finds is all he's able to say.

Smackle continues pulling him through the crowds. “Is something wrong, dearest?” Smackle says abruptly, glancing at him, as he finally notices the rest of his friends. Zay's leaning against a locker with a look that Farkle has categorized as his expressionful way of saying “this is pathetic”. And he can see why as the girls have an awkward tango of 'hi' 'hello' 'hey' with Lucas. It seemed even in high school these things weren't going to change anytime soon. “Farkle?” Isadora implores once more stopping him in his tracks.

He lets out a sigh, swinging his hand back to his side. Farkle sees the way Smackle's face seems to fall but gives a small shake of his head. He wanted things to be back to normal—or as normal as they can get with two best friends falling in love with another best friend. He knew someone was going to get hurt and he knew they wanted to avoid that, but this whole mess seemed to be doing just that anyway. He'd hoped having Riley confront her feelings might assist them in figuring it out, but they hadn't gotten any further since the end of the year.

“They're still at,” he mumbles quietly, for Smackle's ears only.

His girlfriend gives him a confused look. “I hear love is a most complicated thing,” Smackle announces, brushing back her hair, “perhaps we should find our own triangle to partake in. I am most intrigued at the feelings attached.”

“No,” Farkle answers in a snap.

The sound of how harsh his voice comes out is a surprise even to him. He doesn't chance a look at Smackle knowing from the way she shifted that she didn't like that answer either. Farkle's not even sure what made him answer like that—the suggestion of a triangle of their own or the comment before. He just knows it's wrong and finds his body tightening like a wind-up toy. He's grateful his other friends haven't seemed to notice them with the way Smackle's eyes bore into him for an explanation.

“...I--” he hesitates a moment, “I just think none of us know what love really is.”

Smackle purses her lips at his response and silence falls between them. There's a sudden realization on Farkle's side that this was what was troubling him—That so much of his life seemed to be a constant state of fighting or awkwardness. The closest he'd seen to real love was with the Matthews and he's not there often enough. It was only last year he realized he might actually feel something, it's still too new and fresh—But even so he knows that this isn't what love is supposed to be. He feels it in his bones. He was happy with Isadora, but was that love? Any reasoning seemed to be clouded over with a numbing feeling.

“You're wrong,” Smackle finally said, more gently then he's heard her in a long time, “I know you don't believe that.”

Farkle shakes his head in response finally looking the girl in the eyes. She wavers only slightly, but she's Smackle and he knows she'll always fight back. He gives a shrug of his shoulders before stepping away.

“I do believe that.”

That's the last sentence he leaves hanging in the air as the bell rings. He pulls his eyes away from her disbelieving face to grip the strap on his bag once more and head to the homeroom he's already memorized. The one benefit of that being it was practically the only time he didn't have with any one of his friends on his schedule. He would need those few moments to recompose himself and try to be the Farkle they all expected... Even if that boy felt like someone that was locked away when summer began.


	3. "I love you"

Farkle found that he was glad for the school system's habit of half days on the first day of school. It made avoiding his girlfriend's curious stares all the more easier. Furthermore, when his friends heard about the tiff it helped him manage to miss their questions as well. It probably helped that he'd made sure to memorize the school layout the night before when he couldn't sleep. No matter where he was his friends couldn't seem to corner him. Even at the end of the day when they all seemed to be staking out the front entrance, Farkle managed to get the maintenance guy to let him out the side door (the man seemed to think maybe he was being bullied and Farkle wasn't going to say no when that meant a free escape).

He turns off his phone when he leaves the school already seeing the insistent buzzing of texts from his friends. He ponders minutely if he should send a text of “I just need to be alone, guys” to the group chat, but decides it would open up a can of worms he wasn't up to dealing with right now. Instead he shoves the phone in his back pocket and takes the long way home. Sure, he could call another driver, but he knows that's an impossibility at this time of day in New York traffic. Even with the benefits his father seemed to have. Instead he walked, listening to music on a well worn ipod. He vaguely remembers his father offering to buy him a new one when he noticed it after an 'incident' this summer but he refused.

It makes him think of how his father seems to have two sides right now and he's never sure which one he'll run into. Farkle was thinking too much, though, and he knew it so instead he turned the volume up to full-blast in hopes to drown out those thoughts. His friends haven't made it to his house by the time he makes it home and it's another small thing he's grateful—Thus he requests the doorman to turn all visitors away and say he'd call them later. The doorman had, of course, responded factually with his father had already requested no visitors a short while ago. Farkle knew what that meant and so all he could do was give a solemn nod as he pushed the up button on the elevator.

As he expected when he got off at the floor he could hear his parents voices carrying over the music. Pulling one ear piece out he could hear the sound of something shattering and he winces to himself. Quickly putting it back in, Farkle made his way to his room. Instead of going on his phone as he usually might, he booted up an MMO and put on a different set of headphones. He spends the most of the night playing that until someone asks what that noise was coming from his side. After that he quickly disconnects and just turns to trying to read something. A difficult task when the voices and sounds lofted over from the next room.

For a brief moment he considers asking to extend the wall to his room. That might stifle more of the yelling, but it would also mean he loses his train. As he drifts off to sleep he decides to wait on that. The sounds aren't a melody to fall asleep to, but a static noise that picks up and drops off occasionally. Somehow yet, he manages to sleep.

________________________

The next morning Farkle turns his phone back on and cringes at the sight. There are more text messages than he ever remembered getting in a month and it seemed both Zay and Maya left him multiple voicemails. He can only guess on what there. But the two from Smackle and one from Riley leave him most worried. Lucas didn't have any, but he was the one that seemed to text him the most. Farkle's stomach shifted in his insides as he sent a quick message to the group chat assuring him he was definitely alive and just didn't have a good first day of school.

Before he's even slipped the phone back into his pocket his phone's already trying to keep up with the flurry of responses. He ignores them for now, though, instead going about his morning routine. Just like the day prior he checks himself in the mirror and while the bruises haven't disappeared they've pailed from the bright blues and green to lighter tints. Something he could take content with as he grabbed a different jacket from the day before.

Under the worried eyes of his train conductor, Farkle speaks more animatedly this morning. He was excited for his knew advanced placement classmates he said enthusiastically, and it wasn't a lie. He spoke about going back to Mr. Matthews class and wondering if they'd actually get to learn about Belgium this year (something he still has doubts about it). It eases the conductor's mind as well as helps the boy to calm down. Farkle practically hops off at the elevator today not even minding the sharp pain it sends up his ribcage.

When he arrives at school Maya punches him hard enough to make his knees buckle slightly. Lucas has to hold her back from punching him again for worrying him. It's only when Riley gets between her and him that Maya finally relents that maybe she shouldn't punch the little bugger (though she continues to give him the stinkeye). The others seem to think that a move like that from Maya was enough punishment from their little Farkle. He'd have to agree, but the way Smackle kept giving him cursory glances worries him far more than Maya ever could.

________________________

He finds her waiting for him at the front entrance of the school. Smackle's hands wrap protectively over the binder and notebooks she'd carried with her today. He swallows hard, slowing down as he approaches her. Farkle's hands are already clammy when he slips them into his pockets as he looks her over. She wears the same cursory glance she'd been giving him all day, but she's also holding her head higher and she seems stiffer than usual. As if she's on a mission. He didn't need three guesses as to why.

“Hi,” he says tentatively.

“Hello, dearest.” Smackle responds formally, “I believe we need to talk.”

Farkle can only nod. Smackle tentatively offers a hand. He notes it's one of the first moments that she's ever tried to initiate contact. The realization only makes him kick himself as he waits a moment too long and she's already pulling it away dejectedly. Quickly he pulls his hand out and grips hers in his own, praying she didn't feel the sweat that had gathered there.

If she did, Smackle decided not to do anything. Instead she continued to take charge of their position by pulling him down the stairs of the school. He wonders if she's taking him to Topanga's for a moment and if this was going to be some kind of intervention, but finds he's pleased to be wrong. Instead she's dragging him to a small bookstore they'd spent many days in early summer in. It was built for reading and studying together and there was always a small collective community arguing something. In spite of that there were also cozy corners for private discussions, which is where Smackle was leading him to.

Farkle turns to messing with a book on the end table. “When the Emperor was Divine” he reads immediately categorizing it as something about Japan. He feels Smackle's eyes being trained on him as he moves to open the book. He knows she doesn't know how to start this. Feelings were never her strong suit and he feels guilty not saying anything, but it's hardly as if he's any good at these things. Instead he turns to the first page of the book and begins to read.

“Farkle,” she says in such a small voice he almost beliefs he's imagining it. Then she repeats it again more firmly and his head shoots up. Isadora Smackle is frowning him with a look that he can only describe as disappointment. He swallows—Had she ever been disappointed in him before? Quickly he shuts the book shut and tries to smile.

“Oh,” he squeaks with false humor, “we're not here to read today?”

She pulls on her skirts, “No, we are not.”

“Oh,” he says once more, glancing away.

“Yes, 'oh',” Smackle agrees distastefully, “you told me yesterday you did not believe we knew what love was. Were you associating that with yourself?”

Farkle swallows roughly at her question. Knuckles turning white with the way he holds his grip on the book. He knows he has to answer. Smackle is trying so hard it would be unfair of him to say nothing. “Yeah, I guess,” he mumbles quietly, not meeting her eyes.

There's a pregnant pause before Smackle returns forcefully, “Well, I still ascertain that you are wrong.”

He glances at her once more. “That's not for you to decide, Isadora.”

Smackle purses her lips but is otherwise undeterred. “Perhaps not,” she admits with a trembling voice, “but one of the differences between us is you can feel what I cannot. It is a difference I have always loved about you. Perhaps I am wrong, but you have enough love to put your best friends first. Furthermore, you take the same amount of passion to care about me. I am sure someone who could not love would not be able to inspire the same kind of commitment in someone else, especially in someone like myself.”

He starts at that glancing once more over towards his girlfriend. Smackle seems unphased by her words, as if they were as natural to her as if she was reading a textbook. Perhaps they were, too, she'd grown a lot in the past few months since they'd been dating. That was why even if her words felt recited, he could tell from her expression the gentleness and honesty in its meaning. His fingers grip tighter around the book as he twisted to look anywhere but at her.

“That's just how you see me, Isadora,” Farkle reasons quietly, “it's... It's all a game.”

The words cut through the air.

“Is that so?” She inquires in disbelief. Farkle nods in response and the girl quiets momentarily once more, “...then perhaps you were not the person I thought you were.”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, voice a similar tone.

Farkle feels her get up from the rushing of air. He doesn't bother to look up when he hears the soft padding of feet against carpet. He never thought he'd get Isadora Smackle to give up on him, but here he was. His fingers loosened their hold on the book and it's that exact moment he hears the soft movements stop.

“You might not believe it, so I will believe for you, Farkle Minkus,” Smackle announces abruptly, chancing half a glance towards him that he wouldn't see, “and I'll always be here for you if you need me.”

Before he can think up a response she's walking away once more and the book tumbles out of his lap at his force of letting it go. Face screwing up at the idea of what a jerk he just was, but he's not sure how to make it better. Not when, at that moment, the idea of him understanding love was as distant as mankind going to Pluto in the next century.

 


End file.
